


i am the elephantine shadow of my own tears

by mylittlestarship



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel
Genre: Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Magical Realism, Pining, Slow Burn, World War II, and now... the weather
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23942005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylittlestarship/pseuds/mylittlestarship
Summary: In which there is a storm within Bucky and it's not entirely metaphorical.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

The day Bucky received his draft notice in the mail, he cried. Huge, choking, gasping sobs. He bent over the small table in the kitchen, pressing the letter to his chest and let the tears crawl down his neck, turning the thin paper pulpy. _**ORDER TO REPORT FOR INDUCTION**_ glowed neon behind his eyes and it wasn’t until his damp shirt began to scratch against his chest that he was shifted back into an uncomfortable reality. He scrubbed at his face and laid the letter flat on the table, trying in vain to dry it but the ink had smudged from his tears, melting the text a blur of unreadable shapes. 

He left it there for Steve to find when he got back from his art class. Hoping he would see it and read it, so Bucky wouldn’t have to explain. Too cowardly to look him in his eyes and say it himself: I have to leave you, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I wanted so badly to stay. I’d destroy the letter if you asked, I’d apply to be a conscientious objector and go to jail even if I’d have to deal with my family’s disappointment for the rest of my life. Just say it, and I will. Because the truth is there’s something wrong inside me and I’m scared of what it’ll do if I die out there without you. 

He was startled out of his melodrama at the sound of the door being shoved open. The constant, low-level dampness of the building meant all the doors had swelled in their frames, forcing residents to press their whole body against it and push until it burst open and they could stumble in. 

Bucky glanced at his watch: 8 o’clock. Jesus, had it already been an hour since he got home? He walked over to the cupboard and began pulling down what few ingredients they had for dinner to look like he had been doing something productive. From the corner of his eye he watched Steve attempt to force the door closed. His heavy art bag swung from the crook of his arm and banged against his knees as he braced himself against the wood. Bucky’s mouth opened, about to suggest he drop the bag, or better yet just let Bucky do it, but Steve cut him off before he could say anything. 

“Don’t even start. I can do it myself, I just need to get the right - There! See?” He turned, smiling smugly and gestured at the door which was now wedged into the peeling frame. He dropped the bag on the floor and walked over to where Bucky was now warming up a ration of beans and peas in their ancient, beat-up saucepan. 

“Nice job, Rogers. I’m sure Mr. Harris across the hall appreciated the show.” He was proud of how unaffected he sounded, even as Steve bent his head over the food and brushed against Bucky’s chest. 

He wasn’t even touching Bucky, but his nearness was still distracting to the point of embarrassment. He had hoped to hide the evidence of his earlier breakdown by keeping his face down over the stove, but his eyes were drawn helplessly to the top of Steve’s head. To the soft yellow glow of his hair and the downy curve of his neck. The desire to press his lips to that tender, hidden spot behind his ear and breathe him in, even for just a moment, was paralyzing. A compass to its true north, Bucky’s head turned to look at Steve before he even realized it was happening. Steve looked up and blinked at Bucky’s bloodshot eyes and swollen face, thick golden brows furrowing with concern. 

“Buck, what -” His arm reached up then stopped halfway, hand curved as though he would rest his palm on Bucky’s cheek. Bucky could see it so clearly: Steve’s big knobbly thumb stroking the bruised skin under his eye, the callouses from years of art catching on the tender flesh there. The warmth of his hand healing his stormy terror until all that was left was a vast calm ocean. Instead, Bucky just flapped his own hand helplessly towards the table where the letter lay. 

He watched Steve as he picked it up, watched his mouth shape the words as he read them. 

_**THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES,  
** TO JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES.  
GREETINGS,  
HAVING SUBMITTED YOURSELF… YOU ARE HEREBY NOTIFIED THAT YOU HAVE NOW BEEN SELECTED FOR TRAINING AND SERVICE IN THE ARMY _

Steve looked up, blue eyes wide. “When do you go in? Was there - was there one for me, too? Have you told your ma?” He spoke so earnestly, Bucky would’ve laughed if his throat hadn’t been sewn shut with fear. 

“Wednesday, 9 am.” He finally croaked, “No, there wasn’t one for you. And I don’t think getting rejected by every enlistment center in the tri-state area has helped your chances any.” Steve’s mouth opened in an automatic rebuke, “Yeah, I know about that Steve. You ain’t _that_ slick, and I found another 4F under the bed this morning. You need to stop before you get caught and arrested for lying on your fuckin’ enlistment form. Seriously! That shit can put you in prison for life. Don’t give me that look; if your ma saw you pulling this shit she’d shake you until your brains came out your ears.” But even as he said it he knew Steve wouldn’t give up until he was waist deep in some trench in the middle of Europe. Steve was the no-quitter type. Something in him wired to be forever clawing at closed doors. 

“Bucky, this ain’t about you or me! It’s about doing the right thing, you know that. I want to help however I can, they can make me a nurse for all I care.” Bucky snorted at the thought. “If you’re going then I’m going too and don’t argue with me about it, Barnes. I’m hungry and I’ve had a long day dealing with that lousy Mr. Sheppard’s commision. I just want to eat dinner and listen to Glenn Miller until I fall asleep. Is that too much to ask? And close your mouth, you look like a cow.” 

Bucky, who had been about to start really laying into him, snapped his mouth shut so fast he bit his cheek, “Yes, sir.” 

He took the pot off the stove and divided it between two bowls, making sure Steve didn’t notice that Bucky had given him more, before sitting down and reaching for the last of their bread. Steve nodded his thanks, pacified for the moment, and began to shovel beans into his mouth at a rate that was frankly alarming. 

They ate in silence for a while, Bucky mostly stirring the beans half-heartedly around the bowl while he watched Steve inhale his food, entertained by the look of pure bliss on his face. His was the kind of pleasure only the truly hungry could comprehend. Even now, 10 years after the worst of the depression, Steve still ate like each meal was a wholly new experience. 

Once they had finished, Bucky set the bowls on the counter and went to turn on the radio as Steve lay down on the couch and unbuttoned his shirt with a sigh. It gaped open, revealing a thin white undershirt and the fading sunset pooling into his collarbones. Bucky’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as his throat turned dry at the sight. He turned back to searching for a clear sound before Steve saw the desperate hunger written all over his face. He had to turn the volume up higher than normal to compensate for Steve’s deaf ear, but Bucky would take the neighbor’s complaints for the rest of eternity just to see the look of contentment that spread across Steve’s face as the music reached him. 

Steve smiled when the horns of _Moonlight Serenade_ began to drift lazily from the speakers. He rolled his head from the arm of the couch to look at Bucky, who had moved to sit on the floor by his feet. 

“Y’know he’s in the Air Force” Steve gestured vaguely to the radio, “plays trombone or something in the big band there. Read it in the paper the other day.” 

Bucky hummed his acknowledgment, thoughts divided between the letter on the table and the heat of Steve’s leg against his back. He flinched in surprise when he felt knuckles rap the top of his head, Steve’s mouth suddenly close and whispering, “Where’d you go, drifter?” 

The heat of Steve’s breath on the inside of his ear made Bucky shiver. He felt like he’d been lit on fire, his veins melting and reshaping into something unknown. “‘m still here, Stevie. Just trying to appreciate the music without your whiny voice yappin’ in my ear.” A perfect delivery of the expected response. Great job, Buck.

“Ha ha, you’re a real comedian, Barnes. I’ll have you know Carnegie Hall’s dyin’ to get me on stage, but my throat’s a little sore this week”

“Huh, that’s funny, ‘Cuz I sure seem to remember Mrs. O'Donoghue kickin’ you outta youth choir. Something about how she’d ‘never seen a boy less able to carry a tune’ and ‘the Lord has given you many gifts, child, but singing isn’t one of them.’ That sound familiar? She told Father Whitney about it and everything. You gotta be somethin’ awful to disappoint Mrs. O’Donoghue like that.”

Steve’s indignant huff in response made Bucky bite his lip to keep from smiling. There was no better sight than Steve, blushing and indignant, leaning forward, eyes alight with the promise of a good argument. 

“Say whatever you want, but you’ll be missing it while you’re away.” Steve said, pushing a little at Bucky’s shoulder. 

Immediately, Bucky’s mood plunged into an abysmal sadness so deep and unexpected it took the breath out of him. The letter, the promise of war, the thought of leaving Steve, it all hung about his neck like a noose waiting to be tightened. It was a little like jumping into the ocean with weights tied to his hands. There could be no escape from any of this; nothing left for him but to drown under the waves, a victim of gravity. Speechless, he just shook his head, rubbing his thumb against his bottom lip until Steve’s hand on his shoulder brought him up short. 

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay. War’s supposed to be over by Christmas anyway, right? That’s only a coupl’a months from now; I think you can probably stay alive that long, it’s always the stupid jerks like you who get all the luck.”

Bucky laughed wetly at that, but a sudden anger had begun to infect his sadness and turn it into something beastly; something that needed to let its claws out, “And what’re you gonna do when I’m not here? Keep tryin’ to enlist?” 

Steve frowned and took his hand off Bucky’s shoulder, leaving an invisible third degree burn in its wake. 

“Is that what you’re worried about? Leavin’ me here while you go off to Europe and kill Nazis? Well I’ll tell you Barnes, I-” 

“Christ, Steve, if you’re going to say you can take care of yourself just fine, I want you to remember who it was pulled you from that bar fight at Dixie’s and fixed your broken nose two days ago. ‘Cuz it sure wasn’t any of your other friends.” Steve flushed at this and opened his mouth but Bucky barreled on, “And it _definitely_ wasn’t any of your other friends who took you to the hospital to get your lungs drained after you had an asthma attack so bad you passed out on the stairs. So fuckin’ forgive me if I’m a little worried, okay?” 

Steve’s lips pressed together and his eyes narrowed, a sure sign of his righteous fury beginning to steam and boil over. “I’m not some damn invalid for you to take care of Bucky, I can get by on my own. Christ - you’re so - you’re so full of yourself, you know that? People are dying every day over there, fighting for their country and -”

Bucky laughed, loud and bitter, “You don’t get it Steve, you really don’t. I’ll go and fight, it’s just - I’m just -” But he can’t get the words out. He wasn’t even sure what he meant to say anyway; that he was built all wrong inside? That he was unfit for society? That there was something in him, some strange parasite that had consumed his heart and made him hunger for things he couldn’t have? Dangerous things? Because he wouldn’t be dying for his country. That’s the worst part. He’d be dying for Steve, for nothing at all, and he was too goddamn selfish to ever think otherwise. 

Steve must’ve seen something of that on Bucky’s face, because he just looked very closely at Bucky, blue eyes shining in the orange glow of the sunset, and said “Okay, Buck.” before laying back down and closing his eyes. Bucky raised his eyebrows at the abrupt end to their fight. His anger was still churning up a whirlpool in his stomach, ready to sink any foolish traveler who came too near, but Steve didn’t say anything else the rest of the night. He didn’t even look over. Bucky frowned and settled back down against the couch. He felt strangely adrift at the abrupt ending of the fight, but if Steve was going to let it go, then so would he. He closed his eyes and let the music soothe him to stillness; _Call of the Canyon_ was playing now, Ray Eberle crooning _once again I'm dreaming of you, every night I search the moonlight up and down the river shore, it's the call of the canyon, maybe I will see you once more..._

\----------------

Fighting with Steve was explosive. It was like asking to be sliced open from groin to throat and then picked apart by vultures. Nothing could be kept hidden from Steve’s omniscient eye (except, of course, that unnameable thing which grew inside Bucky and sparked whenever their legs pressed together accidentally, or Steve mumbled his name while he slept). He would tear Bucky apart without any mercy because that’s how he was: relentless to the point of stupidity. So the fact that he had willingly let this argument go terrified Bucky. What had he seen on Bucky’s face? Were the words _(I LOVE YOU AND I AM AFRAID)_ scrawled across his forehead like some sort of theatrical confession? Or had there been something else, something deeper that even Bucky himself could not understand? Whatever it was, his dreams were uneasy that night. 

He saw himself trapped in a cage, hunted by the hungry lion of his heart. It roared and feral electricity snapped from its mouth like a thunderstorm, singeing Bucky with its wild power. It stepped forward and crowded Bucky until he was cowering in the corner of the cage, alight with the shame of what he could not control. That inferno, that sickening natural disaster within him; it clawed and shook and howled its fury until Bucky was deaf from fear. Was there to be no escape from the vastness of his desire? This shameful thing which he could find no vessel to contain? It crashed over him in a never ending wave, climbing first down his throat, then into his lungs, spreading like poison into his stomach and brain before finally resting triumphant in the chambers of his heart. He was consumed by it; his soul devoured in its bloody maw. 

He woke, panting like an animal and smelling of ozone, and crushed his hands into his eyes, rubbing away the grit of sleep and the memory of the dream until all he could see behind his eyelids was a senseless kaleidoscope of light. 

He turned his head to see if Steve was awake, but his face was still relaxed in sleep. In a fit of pique likely brought on by his nightmare, Bucky let himself to look in the way that he wasn’t allowed. To let himself trace his eyes over the crooked turn of his nose, the thin purple of his eyelids as they wrinkled to meet his eyelashes, the plush bed of his lips which were open to admit his wheezing, asthamtic breaths. It was like that first hit of nicotine: sickening, but thrilling all the same. Then Steve shifted, and Bucky quickly turned away, shame and fear mingling in his stomach like lava. 

Sleeping in the same bed as someone you love but can never have is an exquisite torture. 

“Hm, Buck? Y’r up? Whattimeisit?” Steve mumbled against his pillow, squinting in the dim morning light. 

Bucky looked at the small clock on the floor, “7:15. I gotta go see Ma and tell her the news. Then head to the docks, maybe try to get some money before I leave.” After getting no response, he looked over only to see that Steve was fast asleep again, face down on the pillow.

Bucky shook his head and got up to get dressed, Steve’s ability to fall asleep at the drop of a pin was something Bucky would probably never understand. 

By the time he got out of the apartment it was a thunderstorm of a morning. Dark clouds were gathering at the edges of the horizon like secrets, rumbling and crowding into each other until the sky was totally blackened over. Bucky frowned at the sound of distant thunder and hurried up the steps of the station, a headache from the change in air pressure already beginning to bloom at his hairline. Storms always gave him violent migraines, often leaving him laid up in bed, sick as a dog for a day or two even after it had passed. It was the same problem his father had, before he died, but Bucky was the only one in the family lucky enough to inherit it. Guess he could forget about working at the docks today, he’d probably just have to sleep it off at his Ma’s house.

The train to Queens was basically empty, so Bucky put his feet up on the bench and rested his head against the window. Someone had scratched the name _GENE_ into the thick glass by Bucky’s ear and he pressed his pointer finger into the _N_ to turn it into a _V_ , and covered up the _G_ with his thumb so it read _EVE_. Then he blinked and snatched his hand away. Jesus, what the fuck was wrong with him? Normal people didn’t do shit like this! Normal people sat on the train and- and read the damn paper or- or thought about sweethearts who were _girls_ and not 5’4” assholes prone to back alley fights. He crossed his arms and looked determinedly out the opposite window, letting the pounding of his head drown out any more stupid thoughts. Except his fingers still burned like he’d dipped them in acid. God, he was just so fucking tired of it. As the train continued to rattle up Myrtle Ave, Bucky chewed his lip and watched the sky press ever lower, pregnant and ominous with rain. 

By the time Bucky reached the house the rain had started and he was in a vicious mood. His jacket was soaked through, his fingers were blue from the cold, and his head ached so bad he could barely see. He leaned against the doorframe as he knocked and then startled upright when Winifred Barnes, his lovely, perfect, Ma opened the door a second later. 

“Bucky! What’re you doing here? Your sisters are at school, you just missed them. Come in, you look terrible. Is it your head? Have you been eating? Lie down on the couch, I’ll bring you some aspirin. ” 

She shephered him inside, closing the door and rushing to the bathroom for the medicine. Bucky almost cried with relief as he was enveloped in the familiar warmth of his childhood home. His Ma came back out with the aspirin and a glass of water while he sprawled onto the couch. 

“Thanks, Ma” he croaked. 

“Of course, honey” She lay a cool cloth on his forehead and over his eyes, smoothing his rain-tangled hair from his face, “You wanna tell me why you’re here? Or am I just gonna have to guess.” 

Bucky pulled the letter out from his inside pocket and held it out to her wordlessly. With his eyes still covered he couldn’t see her reaction, but the thick silence that fell over them was more than enough. 

“Is this -” Her words trailed off, but Bucky nodded, “I- Oh, God.” He felt her arms wrap around his back and lift him into a tight hug. She pressed him against her, rocking back and forth whispering oh god, oh god, oh god over and over into the side of his head. Even with his eyes closed he could tell that she was crying, the sound mingling with the rush of rain outside. 

Her hand on the back of his head, pressing him into her shoulder, made him feel like a little kid again, soft and cared for. She even smelled the same, a mix of clean laundry and coffee that was so distinctly her he felt he could recognize it blind. All he wanted in that moment was to curl up into her until he disappeared into atoms.

“Hafta go report in on Wednesday. Do my medical exam, get checked out, probably leave for training by the end of the week.” He mumbled. Even the sound of his own voice made his head throb. He was beginning to feel nauseated from the pain, shifting in his Ma’s arms as she cradled him. “It’ll be okay, just a few weeks probably. Then I’ll be back home before I ship out. Plus you still got Becca and Charlie to look after.” 

Outside, the rain fell in fat drops as lightning streaked and thunder shook the building. The pain in his head had become so intense Bucky was pretty sure he was either gonna throw up or pass out if his Ma didn’t let him lay back down. As if she could sense his anxiety, his Ma cleared her throat and stood up, “I’m your mother, James Buchanan, and no mother should have to send her only son off to God knows where, not knowing if he’ll come back or not. You’re my baby, it’s my job to keep you safe. So you’ll have to forgive me if I worry, okay? I’m scared. You should see those boys who come back, they’re not the same. It’s like they’re empty, or- or lost. I don’t want to see you like that.” 

She got up and Bucky soon felt the weight of a blanket settle over him. She kissed his forehead and ran a hand through his hair, murmuring that she’d wake him in a few hours. 

Bucky slept. The storm raged on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky suffers through things, some of which he doesn't even understand.

Bucky woke to silence. He was freezing and his left arm, which he had rolled onto at some point, was so numb he could barely move it. Sleeping on the couch was always a bad decision for him, but at least the storm had broken while he slept, leaving behind only a deep, humid scent of petrichor that tickled his nose and made him sneeze. He rolled onto his back, the cloth over his eyes keeping him in a comforting darkness, lulling him back into a doze as time passed over him like butter.

The pain in his head had lessened thanks to the aspirin his Ma had given him before he fell asleep, but he could still feel its threatening ache behind his eyes. If he timed it right, he might be able to get on the train and back to the apartment before the storm started back up and rendered him a useless heap of misery on his mother’s couch again. 

He groaned and pulled the cloth from his eyes, letting it fall to the floor. A glance up at the clock above the sink told him that he’d been asleep for almost three hours. His sisters would come home from school in a little while and he wasn’t sure he could handle being here when they did. He loved them, he did, but Rebecca and Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Barnes functioned on a level of energy that could power an entire city grid if they tried hard enough. At 14 and 11, they had enough sentience to hold a real conversation, but not enough thought to respect Bucky’s space if they caught him lazing on the couch. 

The grey light that came through the window was barely enough to illuminate the room, leaving him squinting and fumbling for the lamp by his head. His mind felt caught up in that weird post-nap haze of unreality. 

His Ma must have heard him get up, because she poked her head out of the kitchen and smiled when she saw his sleep-red cheeks. 

She came over and pressed a hand to his forehead, “Feeling any better, baby? How’s your head? Do you want some soup? I made Matzo ball, I know it’s your favorite.” 

He batted her hand away, overwhelmed by the questions, “Yeah, Ma, I feel better. Thanks. But-” 

Before he could finish what he wanted to say, she had disappeared into the kitchen. There was an extended period of clattering bowls and silverware before she returned with a steaming bowl of soup topped with two big matzo balls and dill. Where she had gotten the dill from in September, he had no idea. 

“Here, baby. This’ll make you feel better. I put extra carrots in because I know you like them.” She pushed the bowl into his hands and dipped the spoon in, seemingly ready to start feeding him like he was a baby. He put up a hand, blocking her. 

“Woah! Okay, okay, thank you Ma, but I can eat it myself.” He took the spoon from her hand and ate. It was delicious. Of course it was delicious. The matzo balls were perfectly airy and the carrots were soft as butter. Everything melted together in his mouth, bringing back memories of passovers packed with family and sick days spent in bed. 

His childhood had been a bizarre mixture of celebrating Shabbat on Friday nights and then attending Mass with Steve and Steve’s Ma on Sunday mornings. Steve never made him come, of course, but he liked watching Steve draw stupid comics in the back pages of the hymnal and giggling with him over Father Whitney’s terrible singing. 

His mother sat by his side and said nothing until he had drained the rest of the broth and put the empty bowl aside. 

“Why do you never come by? You know your sisters would love to see you. By next week they’ll have forgotten what you look like. Stay for dinner tonight, unless you hate your mother so much that you can’t bear to be around her anymore?” 

Bucky scoffed, “Ma, I don’t hate you. I was here last Friday for Shabbat. Rebecca showed me the new piece she learned on the violin, remember?” 

She pursed her lips and pulled his hands into her lap, covering them, “I know baby, I just miss you. And now with you going away…” She trailed off. 

“I know, Ma, I’m sorry. I gotta go home, but I promise I’ll be back on Wednesday after I report in and I’ll tell you everything.” He pulled his hands gently from her grasp and stood up, kissing her on the cheek as he did. 

The pain returned with violence the moment he was on his feet. It squeezed his head and split the vision in his left eye into black spots. Outside, he could hear lightning burst at the horizon.

His ears rang with static and he almost threw up as he bent down to tie his shoes. The pain was debilitating to the point where Bucky wondered if he would pass out before he even made it home. 

As he was putting his jacket on at the door, his Ma pressed a still warm jar of soup into his hands, emphasizing that it was for _Steve, because Lord knows that boy is thinner than a piece of yarn._ The Steve that lived in Bucky’s head flushed and made several indignant noises at that, but Bucky didn’t say anything, just kissed her on the cheek and stepped out into the wet afternoon. 

The journey back to the apartment was somehow medieval torture and uneventful at the same time. 

The train was mostly empty again, so he was able to snag a seat and rest his aching head in the palms of his hands. He soon faced a worse problem when the pain from his head was joined by a stomach clenching nausea that rose and fell with the swaying of the compartment. It was only through sheer force of will that his Ma’s soup didn’t make an unwelcome appearance on the floor of the G train. He didn’t think he had it in him to deal with any concerned citizens, but besides a few strange glances shot his way, the good people of New York knew better than to approach a man whose pallor resembled that of a very sweaty ghost and he spent the ride completely ignored. 

By the time he got to his stop, Bucky thought he might have to crawl the seven blocks to their apartment, soup be damned. He struggled down the stairs and managed to stay upright for the walk, but just barely. By the time he reached the third floor of their building he had to stop every four steps to rest his head against the cool concrete wall. If Steve saw him like this, he would never be able to live it down. He’d say something like _pal, you’re slower than me and my lungs are the size of peanuts. Or, funny how just yesterday you were saying I couldn’t take care of myself. Look who’s the invalid, now._

God, his head hurt so bad he couldn’t even think of something funny. 

It wasn’t until he put the keys in the lock and turned the handle only to find that the door had swelled shut again that he finally let despair overtake him. Bucky couldn’t even bother to muster up the effort it would take to open that door. The idea of lying down in the hall and crying was becoming increasingly more appealing by the second. 

He shoved weakly against the door with his shoulder but it didn’t budge. Fuck this fucking door and fuck this whole day. Fuck this lousy storm. And while he was at it, fuck the war, fuck the United States Army for drafting him, and fuck Hitler too. 

He knocked on the door, praying Steve was still home. There was no response. He knocked again, but after a few more minutes of nothing, Bucky began to list sideways and slide ungracefully down to the floor, hoping for a quick death. 

Without warning the door was suddenly wrenched open and there stood Steve, haloed by the dusky light of his mother’s ancient floor lamp and looking down at Bucky like a bemused guardian angel. 

“Buck? I thought you were working at the - Jesus, what the hell? You look like shit!”

Bucky felt a burst of energy at the sight of Steve’s face and clambered up, pushing the jar of soup into Steve’s hands, saying “Thanks, pal, that’s a real compliment comin’ from you. Put that in the icebox for me, willya? I need to lay down.”

He left Steve at the door with his mouth open and made a beeline straight for their unmade bed, blindly shedding his jacket and shoes as he went. 

No windows meant their bedroom was blessedly dark. He lay face down on the pillow, soaking in its cool comfort while the pressure in his head seemed to reach a crescendo, pain increasing every time lighting cracked outside. 

Bucky didn’t even notice Steve approaching until he put a gentle hand on the back of Bucky’s neck, stroking the tender skin there. Bucky’s brain liquified and drained out of his ears at the touch. If Steve was saying anything Bucky was unable to hear it over the rushing panic in his head and the rain which seemed to be coming down harder than ever. The time between lightning strikes was decreasing at an alarming speed. 

Steve’s thumb swiped behind his ear, rubbing at the sensitive corner of Bucky’s jaw. His body felt too big and too small all at once, and he was almost delirious trying to hold himself still as Steve’s feverishly hot hand on his neck sent electric shocks directly to his dick. Thinking was really starting to get difficult. Steve moved his thumb down to press against the thin skin over Bucky’s racing pulse, and it was like Bucky could feel each individual whorl of Steve’s fingerprint. Bucky swallowed and buried his head deeper into the pillow, he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take, he wasn’t sure he could live if it stopped. 

He was definitely going to hell. 

Then three things happened simultaneously: Steve’s thumb brushed Bucky’s Adam’s apple, there was a deafening _CRACK_ as lightning hit the telephone pole outside their apartment, and the pain in Bucky’s head exploded. 

The lights in the apartment flickered off a second later. 

“Fuck.” Steve said. 

Dizzy and breathless from the sudden shock of pain in his head, Bucky could only groan in agreement. 

“Do we still have the candles from Christmas?” Steve asked, standing, “or should I go down the hall and ask Mr. Harris.” 

Bucky groaned again and reached under the bed, fingers scrabbling against the dusty hardwood until his fingers bumped against paraffin. There were only four, shrunken and lumpy with overuse, dusty from being under the bed for months. He held them out to Steve without looking.

Steve placed two in the main room, one in the kitchen, and one in the bedroom, before lighting them with Bucky’s silver lighter. The orange glow of candlelight cast deep shadows across the apartment, dark chasms in the corners that pulsed and trembled with the wind. Everything smelled of ozone. 

Bucky lay there for a while, head turned to the side so he could watch the sway of light across the wall, thinking of nothing. 

A sudden noise from the kitchen woke him from his stupor, a gentle reminder that life was still careening on without him. He rubbed at his eyes, surprised to find that once the dizziness had passed, the pain in his head had faded along with it. When it had happened, he didn’t know, but he really didn’t want to dwell on how it had only happened _after_ Steve had touched him. That was getting buried with the rest of the thoughts he shouldn’t be having about his best friend. 

Steve was hunched over the kitchen table, squinting over what Bucky assumed was Mr. Sheppard’s commission for his butcher’s shop. In the candlelight it resembled more of a shapeless blob than an advertisement for ham. 

“Y’know, I don’t think it’s kosher for you to be drawin’ pictures of ham in our Jewish kitchen, Stevie.” Bucky said, peering over Steve’s shoulder as he grabbed his wrinkled pack of Pall Malls and lighter off the table.

Steve blew out a laugh and elbowed him in the ribs, “Shut the hell up, Barnes, you’ve gotta be the worst Jew I’ve ever met. Also I’m pretty sure I saw you eating a turkey and cheese at the automat yesterday; now I’m a good Catholic so you’ll have to tell me, has eating dairy with meat become pareve in the last two days?” 

Bucky didn’t say anything, just yanked at Steve’s chair until he tumbled to the ground backwards, scattering his pencils everywhere.

“Oh woops,” Bucky said, stepping over him and heading towards the open window, “you should probably pick that up.”

He didn’t get very far before Steve latched onto his ankle and pulled Bucky down onto the floor with him. Bucky grunted as the air was knocked out of his lungs. Asshole. 

“Glad you’re feelin’ better, Buck.” Steve said with an angelic smile, and as they both tried to get back up, he deliberately leveraged himself to his feet with a forceful hand on Bucky’s shoulder, shoving Bucky back down onto the floor. 

“Jesus fuck - ow! You’re really somethin’ else, y’know. Next time I see you gettin’ beat in some alley I’m not stopping to help. Not fuckin’ worth it.” Bucky kicked one of Steve’s pencils out of his reach before walking to the window to have a smoke. 

Too lazy to crouch on the wet fire escape, Bucky rested his elbows on the windowsill and stuck his head as far out of the window as he could, not caring as rain soaked through his hair and ran down his back. If the smoke got into the apartment it could irritate Steve’s lungs into an attack, so he wasn’t going to risk it. 

After not smoking all day, the first pull of nicotine was like an electric shock to his brain. The rush of light-headedness after hours of crushing pain felt exquisite. He was jittery all over as he stood there, playing with the Pall Mall pack in his shaking hands, running his thumb back and forth over the words _Wherever Particular People Congregate._

He didn’t know how he had learned that these cigarettes were the kind for men like him. In a neighborhood like theirs, where people were all sorts of things from all sorts of places, information like that had a way of finding those who needed it. 

It was thrilling, in a way, to know that there were so many more people like _him_ out there, a secret society of men who smoked these same cigarettes and probably had these same thoughts. Men who were hiding that _other_ side of themselves, men that would be outcast by just one little word. A word that made Bucky so sick he thought he might throw up with the fear of it. _Queer._

The hunger of it was almost unbearable, eating at the soft parts inside him until he was so hollowed out he was sure he’d split in two, easy as the tearing of wet paper. Some days, when the fear got to his head and made his chest close in, he would spend hours pretending until he lost himself in the performance. Going out to dance halls or bars where it was so easy to pretend: to flirt with girls, to kiss them, to love them, to take their hand and follow them to an alley somewhere and reach up their skirts to stroke the soft inside of their thighs. But it never truly stuck. Always, he was left so empty and rotten he could die. 

Then, in the velvet blackness of night, he would wake to the sound of Steve’s wheezing breaths and feel that fiery hunger rage through him like a spark in dry grass. He would lie there, paralyzed by the pure wildness trapped within him, scared shitless by the power that a man loving another man can have. Those nights, discovery seemed as easy as turning on his side, as a hand on Steve’s downy cheek, as the smooth press of lips against lips, tongue against tongue. Possibility seemed to illuminate the room with its heady tension until the rosy notes of dawn crept in and extinguished all freedom. 

Bucky tipped his head up into the rain, blowing out a stream of ashy smoke. None of it mattered anyway, because he would never tell Steve. Because he would never tell anyone, and then when he died maybe it would explode out of his chest like some kind of macabre post-mortem confession. Here lies the real Bucky Barnes, unknowable in life as in death. 

He stubbed out the cigarette and watched it fall onto the street below, becoming indistinguishable among the silvery puddles. He turned back into the room, where Steve was still sketching out the stupid ham picture. 

The sudden loss of pain in his head had left him on edge, now combined with the nicotine, he was itchy and restless with bad humor. He wanted to go out and get drunk enough to lose himself and forget the shitty past few days. He wanted to do _something_ before he had to report in tomorrow. 

“Hey, Steve?” He asked, tugging at his bottom lip. 

“Hm?” 

“Y’wanna go out tonight? Dancing?” 

Steve’s shoulders tightened under his thin shirt. Bucky could already tell what the answer would be.

“Buck, I- I really can’t. I’ve gotta finish this by Thursday, and it’s Tuesday already. Plus it’s the middle of the week, I mean who’s gonna be out, anyway? It’ll be a bust. Why not wait ‘till Saturday? I’ll go with you then, if you really wanna.” Steve stuttered. 

It was a lost cause, but Bucky tried anyway. 

“Aw c’mon, it’s my last night as a free man. You’re really gonna leave your best pal all alone? There are dangerous people at those places, Steve, women. They’ll eat me alive if you ain’t there.” 

Steve mumbled something under his breath, too quiet for Bucky to hear. 

“What was that? Was that a ‘yes Bucky, of course I’ll come?’” Bucky asked, stepping closer. 

Steve sighed and turned to face him, “I said ‘in your dreams, Buck,’ ‘cause no dame is gonna wanna dance with your ugly mug.” he crossed his arms with a huff, “I’m still not goin,’ so stop askin.’” 

“Ok, ok, I’ll stop, but you still got a coupla hours if you change your mind.” 

Bucky knew from experience that he was walking on a thin line, Steve’s anger always an inch below the surface, ready to spill over into a fight if Bucky pushed too hard. So he let the argument settle and curled up on the couch, digging his battered copy of _The Bacchae_ out from between the cushions. 

It had been worn down when Bucky had stolen it (from the public library, but as far as Steve knew, it had belonged to Bucky’s father). The cover faded to a dull red, pages darkened by foxing and years of Bucky’s dirty hands. Every scene was covered in Bucky’s diligent notes, layers of ink bleeding into each other, thoughts crammed into the corners and curling around the print until it was almost unreadable. Bucky loved it. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent in silence, both lost in their work, which was broken only by the scratching of Steve’s pencils and their twin whoops of joy when the electricity came back on. The radio, which had been dark up until then, flickered to life in the middle of a song. It was playing _Somewhere,_ Glenn Miller’s big band swinging behind Ray Eberle’s melancholy voice: _There’s someone who's meant for me... there's a friend who'll be oh so tender, somewhere beyond the blue, there’s someone who'll love me too._

It had already been dark for a few hours by the time Bucky got off the couch to get ready. He didn’t need to do much: nicer pants and shirt, the suspenders that weren’t fraying at the seam, and his coat. 

He put his Ma’s matzo ball soup on the stove to heat and sat at the table across from Steve, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows, “Well?” 

Steve’s dark eyebrows came together in a grimace but he didn’t look up, “The answer’s still no, Buck. I got a lot to do.” He pressed the pencil harder into the paper as if to emphasise the point.

“Alright, well if the police come knocking on the door telling you I’ve been eaten alive remember that it was your fault.” 

“I’ll be sure to cry the loudest at your funeral.” 

“Thanks, pal, that really means a lot.”

They ate their soup and talked about nothing; Steve lavishing praise on his Ma’s cooking, the strange things Bucky saw on the train this morning, the storm, but Steve fell silent as Bucky put his coat on at the door. 

He was checking his pockets for his keys, about to tell Steve to have a good night when Steve cleared his throat and stepped up close to Bucky so that they were almost chest to chest. The words froze in Bucky’s throat, his mouth hanging open stupidly as he looked down at Steve and waited for him to do something. 

Steve kept his eyes downcast, mouth opening and closing a few times before he said, “Have a- have a good night, Buck. Sorry I’m being such a mule about everything, it’s just-”

Bucky cut him off, knowing what he was gonna say, “Steve it’s fine, seriously. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure Mr. Sheppard will love the ham, it’s very realistic.” 

Steve slapped him on the arm for that one and then smiled, his eyes finally raising to meet Bucky’s. In the yellow light of their floor lamp his eyelashes were a messy smudge of dark gold, their shadow making his blue eyes seem almost unnaturally bright. His hand was still resting on Bucky’s arm as he said, “Thanks, Buck. Next time I’ll come with you, promise. As long as you’re still alive after this one.” 

“Ha ha very funny, but these dames are like sharks, Stevie, I swear.” 

“And you’re blood in the water?” 

“Exactly. They can smell me a mile off.” 

“I think that’s just your socks, pal, have you thought about washing them?” 

“Shuddup, punk. You do the laundry.” 

“Exactly. Now go, I’m tired of talking to you.” 

Bucky didn’t have anything to say to that, so he wrenched the door open and stepped into the hall, calling out a goodnight as he went.

As the door shut behind him he heard Steve say, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” 

Steve had no idea.

It was an eerily pleasant night after the mess of this morning. The streets were still wet, massive puddles gleaming orange from the street lamps, but the sky was completely clear of clouds. Even the air felt new. 

Bucky whistled as he walked, keeping his hands in his pockets as he ambled over to Atlantic Ave. He had a good feeling about tonight. The place he was going to, well. It was probably better that Steve hadn’t wanted to come with him. 

Going to a queer bar, even in the middle of the week, was a major risk, but he just wanted one night without having to pretend. One night to let go of everything and be himself. Even the thought of it had him smiling to himself like a madman. Every step that took him closer felt lighter than the one before until he was sure he would be floating when he reached the door. 

Silver’s was a small place, modestly lit with no outstanding indicators of the truth that was hidden inside. To Bucky it seemed to glow with promise. As he touched the door handle he felt a small static shock run up his arm but he hardly even noticed as he pulled the door open and the music from inside began to spill out into the street.

It was like he had been drowning and now he was finally breathing fresh air. All around him were men the same as him. Men lounging at the bar, men dancing with each other on the floor, men with their heads bent close, men who twined together in dark corners without fear. There were men with makeup and fancy dress, men in suits and ties, men dressed like Bucky, and even men who were hardly dressed at all. 

Laughter and music rang out from all sides, a hazy curtain of cigarette smoke hung from the ceiling with a smell that made Bucky dizzy. The heat of so many bodies coming together had Bucky immediately peeling his jacket and handing it off to the coat clerk, and after a minute at the bar he had rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his collar too. 

Because he could, Bucky ordered absinthe and then blushed as the bartender winked at him before handing it over. But before either of them could say anything the man was called over to the other end of the bar, leaving Bucky to turn around on his stool and gaze out at the room. 

He had downed three glasses of absinthe before he was drunk enough to head out to the dance floor. He smiled and tilted his head at a dark-skinned man who’d been stealing glances at Bucky from across the room since he’d arrived. The man smiled back, setting his drink down and heading in Bucky’s direction. 

“Wanna dance?” he asked, holding a fine-boned hand out for Bucky to take. He was handsome, with wide, dark eyes, full lips and an easy smile. Bucky took the hand. 

“Absolutely.”

“I’m Richie.” Richie said, leading Bucky to the floor and starting to swing. 

“Bucky.”

“You come around here often, Bucky? I don’t think I remember you.” 

His hands were very smooth but had a strong grip that Bucky liked. 

“Nah, not that much. Maybe every few months or so.” 

“I get it. It’s hard to balance life with _real_ life, huh.” 

Bucky laughed and nodded, breathless from dancing. Exactly. 

Richie was an amazing dancer, pushing Bucky to his limit without ever seeming to tire, but after four songs Bucky had to call a break. They both collapsed in their seats, breathing hard and laughing as they lit their cigarettes. Maybe it was just because he was drunk and high off dancing but Bucky could swear colors had never been so bright, that the air had never been so thick. In his mind the room seemed to tremble and spark with some unseen energy. He felt alive in a way that he never could with a girl. He felt almost whole, missing only that one little piece that he'd given away to a skinny little kid who was always getting into trouble.

Bucky sat back with his first exhalation of smoke and let his eyes cut over to Richie’s, only to find that Richie was already looking at him. 

“So what’s your deal, Bucky? You in a relationship?” He asked, leaning in close enough that Bucky could smell the citrus of his cologne. Bucky thought of Steve. Of what he could never have. 

“No. No, I- there’s no one. Well no one that’ll want me back, anyway.” 

Richie nodded sagely and leaned back against his chair, “Ah, I get it. Close friend of yours?” 

“My only friend, really.” said Bucky, trying to repress thoughts of Steve drawing alone in their apartment, “Known him since we were kids. He’s hard-headed as hell, but grows on you like a fungus. We've been together so long it’s like -”

“Like you can’t live without him?” Richie finished for him, ashing his cigarette and turning to face Bucky fully, “Yeah, I’ve been there. You want my advice?”

Bucky shrugged, “Sure.” 

Richie took Bucky’s hand and placed it in between his own, “You need to let him go. I’m sayin’ this from experience that if you keep this up, it will absolutely ruin your life. The moment he falls in love with a woman, marries her, moves to some stupid little house and has stupid little babies, the moment he moves on from you, it’s gonna cut you open and leave you bleeding in the street. Now I don’t know him, but I’m startin’ to know you, and you don’t deserve that kinda pain. So please just don’t let yourself get left behind.” 

Richie let Bucky’s hand go, downed the rest of his drink, and lit another cigarette as Bucky sat there, lips parted in surprise and feeling a little like he’d been punched in the nose. The worst part of it was that everything Richie said was absolutely true. If Steve found himself a girl, a real, forever kind of girl, Bucky was afraid he might just turn to dust from the agony of it. 

Finally he said, “Thanks for that Richie. I - I’ll try. Thank you, really.”

Richie laughed, “I usually don’t give good advice for free, but you’re just too damn pretty. You wanna drink?” 

Bucky nodded vigorously. 

By the end of the night, Bucky had forgotten the number of drinks he’d had but it was enough that his brain felt soupy and disoriented. Everything was distracting to the point of incomprehension, his hands seemed to move in slow motion, and every time he blinked it was like he lost pockets of time. Maybe he should go home and make sure Steve was alright. 

“That’s what I’m trying to get you to do, Bucky. Go home and see Steve. But we can only do that if you stand up, on your feet, and walk over to get your coat. Can you do that?” Richie’s voice seemed to hum pleasantly in and out of his ears. Bucky giggled. 

Richie was saying more stuff, “Jesus fucking Christ. Ok, get up Bucky or I will drag you out of here. Please. I’m beggin’ here, I know you can do it.” 

Bucky lurched to his feet and turned to Richie with his arms up as if to say, look! I did it! Richie shook his head and pushed him over to the coat check. Bucky rested his head in the crook of Richie’s neck while they waited, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the day like a weight on his back. He was so tired and Richie smelled so good, like oranges in winter. He giggled again. 

Time then drifted and blurred until Bucky found himself standing alone outside the bar with his coat draped over his shoulders and an address in his hand signed _R xx._ Bucky smiled and stuffed it into his pocket, stumbling back to the apartment in good spirits. 

It was very late by the time he staggered to their apartment door. He tried to be quiet as he fumbled the key into the lock and shoved the door open, except the floor lamp was still on and Steve was still awake, sitting on the couch with a book in his lap. It was Bucky’s book, actually, his old beat-up copy of _The Bacchae._ Steve’s expression was a little like he’d been caught doing something illegal. 

“Why’r you still awake?” Bucky slurred, not bothering to be quiet as he rammed the door back into its frame, “Y’weren’t waitin’ f’r me, were you?” 

Steve scoffed, cheeks darkening, “No, I- I just got caught up reading, I was about to go to bed anyway, then you showed up. Must’a been a good night, the way you’re stumblin’-” here he hesitated, as if building up the courage to say something he thought Bucky might not like, “Meet any girls?” 

Bucky snorted at that, ‘meet any girls?’ That was a fuckin’ riot. In his head he imagined sitting down very calmly next to Steve and saying, ‘No Steve, actually I was at a fairy bar and I met a very nice man who told me I should give up being in love with you ‘cuz it’ll probably kill me.’

Instead, what came out of his mouth was, “Yeah, I had a good time. Lotsa people though, very hot. I’m real tired, so ‘m just gonna go t’bed. ‘Night, Stevie.” 

“Night, Buck.” Steve said quietly. 

Peeling out of his clothes required a level of coordination that was beyond Bucky at the moment, so he ended up falling into bed with his pants on and his shirt still buttoned, not caring in the least. It _had_ been a good night, despite Richie's initial speech. He and Richie had ended up spending the entire night together, talking through their lives and getting so drunk they could hardly keep their heads up. He thought about the address in his coat pocket, of maybe seeing him again and trying to move on.

But even as it crossed his mind Bucky knew that nothing would ever come of it. He was so far gone it was like his bones had been remade, his body permanently marked at the points where Steve touched him. If Steve left, either Bucky would follow or he'd die trying. But he was too tired to think about this anymore; instead, his thoughts drifted, stormy with unease, inviting nightmares in to wreak havoc with his unconscious.

He woke up only once, when Steve got under the covers, but Bucky didn’t do much besides shift over to make room. Then the strangest thing happened; he wasn’t sure if it was his muddled mind playing tricks on him or if he was dreaming, but for a moment, just before he fell back asleep, he could’ve sworn he felt the brush of Steve’s nose against his hair, and then the briefest press of lips, like snow, on the back of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again, wonderful reader! silver's is a totally made up place, though i wish it were real. richie was an accident but i hope you liked him because i do. a lot. also for my goyisch readers, pareve just means food that is prepared without dairy or meat so you can eat it with anything, ie its always kosher. like rice, for example. 
> 
> also pall mall cigarettes really were coded for gay men. i learned about this in a lecture on gay symbolism in grant wood's art. theres way more stuff out there then i realized! like red ties, flowers, pinky ring, etc. great stuff.
> 
> next chapter: bucky reports in, things go downhill from there.

**Author's Note:**

> hello! please let me know if you see any glaring errors or if there's anything you like! the title is from the poem gacela of the dark death by federico garcía loca
> 
> you can also find me on tumblr [here!](http://jmesbarnes.tumblr.com)  
> 


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